Page 33 of Beneath Your Beautiful
“If anyone’s responsible for your brother’s drug addiction, it’s you,” he said. “You moved him out of my house when he was still in high school. He never did drugs under my roof. That’s all on you. You hadone job…looking after him. But you fucked it up.”
My hands curled into fists. His eyes challenged me.Go on, do it,they said.
I wouldn’t stoop to his level. I strode away and climbed into my Jeep. Pulling away from the curb, I cranked up the volume on my music, trying to drown out my thoughts. There was a time I had loved that man. Held him up as a superhero, out saving lives and rounding up the ‘bad guys.’ Before my mom took off, I had hazy memories of watching him shave while I sat on the toilet with the seat down, listening to his stories of life on the beat. I’d been proud to call him my father back then. And my mother…I remembered thinking she was the most beautiful woman in the world. For a while, we’d been a family. Before the arguments started. Before Seamus started hitting the bottle. Before I caught my mother with another man.
“This will be our little secret,” she said, a pleading tone in her voice that prompted me to keep my mouth shut, the first of many little secrets I’d kept.
After she left us, everything fell apart. I learned how to gauge my father’s moods, read his body language when he came through the front door. I knew when he’d had a bad day and would hit the bottle, and I knew when his mood would turn ugly. I’d been on constant alert, relaxing only when I saw he wasn’t reaching for the whiskey. He didn’t drink every night. Sometimes he went for months without touching a drop of liquor—the sign of a true alcoholic who couldn’t quit drinking when he’d had enough—and I’d allow myself to get lulled into a false sense of security.
The first time he’d ever laid a hand on me, I was eight. Connor and I had been playing with action figures on the living room floor. Seamus, on the sofa, drinking Jack Daniels and watching the news. Without taking his eyes off the TV, he’d told us to get upstairs and brush our teeth. We’d kept playing. Then he’d said it again, in a voice I didn’t recognize. Low and steely, more frightening than if he’d shouted. Connor had jumped up and ran right upstairs. He’d always been smarter than me. Even at four and half, he’d recognized the danger signs before I did.
Seamus had yanked me to my feet and backhanded me. The sheer force had sent me flying across the room. The coffee table broke my fall, my head hitting it with athunk. It had happened so quickly, I was too stunned to react. Nauseous and dizzy, I’d stumbled upstairs and puked out my guts. The next day, it had been like nothing had ever happened. Months went by before it happened again, and by then, I’d put it out of my mind. The next time had been worse. I’d heard the bones crunching when his fist had connected with my ribs. After that, it had happened more regularly. I used to tell Connor to hide in the closet until it was over. When Seamus was done venting his rage, I’d been broken and bleeding on the kitchen floor. Coast clear, Connor would creep downstairs to help me clean up. He’d gotten good at tending to my wounds, taping my ribs, and patching up my bruises. And we’d both gotten good at hiding our dirty little secrets.
I parked down the street from the pre-war apartment building with a green awning across from Prospect Park. I wasn’t sure what had brought me here today. Clearly, I was a masochist. I stared out the windshield, waiting and watching like a creepy stalker. Couples strolled past, and families with little kids on bikes and scooters headed to the park for a Sunday picnic or a game of Frisbee. Park Slope was so civilized, with its tree-lined streets and clean sidewalks in front of renovated brownstones, the perfect place for city-dwellers to raise a family.
I flipped down my visor to ward off the sunlight. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, the heat suffocating. If she didn’t come out soon, I’d ask the doorman to call her from the desk. Yeah, as if she’d agree to see me. She might already be out. This was a crapshoot but still, I waited, my fingers drumming the steering wheel.
Twenty minutes later, my patience was rewarded. I sat up in my seat as she exited the building, pushing a stroller. Dark hair, high cheekbones, and curvy in all the right places, wearing shorts and a tank top. Relief washed over me. She looked like her old self. I still envisioned her at the funeral, six months pregnant and grief-stricken, her face ghostly pale.
I didn’t even know the baby’s name. He must be nine months old by now.
Fuck it. I needed to see her. I needed to see Johnny’s baby. I got out of my Jeep and followed her to the set of traffic lights. The lights turned red and she crossed at the crosswalk, with me following ten paces behind. When she reached the other side, I called her name. She froze in her tracks and turned slowly. I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but her mouth was pressed in a flat line.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
I snuck a glance at Johnny’s little boy. He looked so much like Johnny, my breath hitched. Same black curly hair, mocha skin, and long, black lashes. Big, dark eyes studied my face, a rice cake clutched in his little hand. He was so beautiful. So pure and innocent. The vice on my heart squeezed and twisted.I’m sorry, Johnny. Fuck, he’d been so excited about becoming a father.
I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. “What’s his name?”
“Leo.”
Leo Ramirez. “He looks like a Leo. Great name.” I crouched in front of him. “Hey, Leo.” He waved the gummy rice cake in the air in greeting. I reached for his hand and he grabbed my index finger, his grip tight, his brown eyes flitting over my face. “You’re strong. Just like your—”Daddy.
“Killian,” Anna said sharply, drawing my attention to her. I stood, and she tightened her grip on the stroller handles, her knuckles turning white.
“It was an accident. If I could go back and change—”
“You can’t. Life doesn’t work that way.”
“I know that.” I struggled to keep my voice even and lock down all the emotions swirling inside me. Anger. Pain. Overwhelming sadness at the fucking injustice of it all.
“You wanted to win so badly, you would have done anything it took.”
I stared at her. She thought winning was more important to me than Johnny’s fucking life? “Johnny was my friend. What happened that night—”
“What happened that night was that you hit him so hard it jostled his brain.” She glanced at my hands. Instinctively, I flexed them. “He was my husband. The father of my child…and because of you, he’s dead.”
Because of you, he’s dead. “I’m sorry.” What else could I say? “I’m so fucking sorry.” Couldn’t she see the guilt and sorrow and regret on my face, hear it in my voice?
“I begged him not to fight you. I had a bad feeling about it. You knew how to destroy him.”
I glanced at Leo, trying to block out her words. He was squirming in his seat, struggling to break free of the safety belts. I was tempted to grant his wish, swoop him up and hold him in my arms. Just one minute of his sweetness and light to chase away the darkness in my soul. “I wasn’t out to destroy him. I never wanted to fight him. I tried to talk him out of it.”
She let out a harsh laugh like she didn’t believe me, but it was the truth and Johnny knew it. Maybe he’d never told her. What did it matter, anyway? “I can’t give you what you want. Maybe Johnny would have forgiven you. But I can’t. I just…I’m sorry…I can’t do it.” She diverted her gaze, her voice so quiet I almost didn’t hear the words. “Stay away from me. It hurts too much to see your face.”
I closed my eyes. When I opened them, she was walking away, in a hurry to put as much distance between us as possible. I let her go. What more could I say? Her loss was so great she needed to hang on to her anger. When it came to Johnny, Anna had protected him fiercely but stood up to him when he was acting like an ass. He’d told me she made him a better man. They had the kind of love everyone envied, and few people found. But now all she had were her memories, an empty bed, and a son who would never know his father. Forgiveness was too much to ask. Being a part of this little boy’s life, a piece of Johnny that still lived on, was out of the question now too.
If someone killed the person I loved, would I ever find a way to forgive them?
